The Last Broadcast

The rain fell hard that night, hammering against the windows of Radio Dhaka FM. The neon sign outside buzzed and flickered, casting a sickly red glow across the empty street. Inside, the studio was quiet except for the hum of machines and the faint crackle of static.

Arif, the midnight host, leaned into the microphone, his voice smooth and hypnotic. “Good evening, listeners. Tonight, we read your letters… stories of love, loss, and sometimes, fear.”

Beside him, Nadia, the sound engineer, adjusted the dials. She had heard it all before — ghost stories, confessions, urban legends. But tonight felt different.

Arif shuffled through envelopes until one caught his eye. No return address. Crimson ink scrawled across the front: Do not read this aloud.

He smirked. “Well, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

His voice filled the airwaves as he read:
“I am trapped in the basement of this station. Please, someone, help me. Do not let him silence me again.”

Nadia froze. “What the hell are you doing? That basement’s been locked for years.”

Static hissed through the speakers. A faint whisper bled into the broadcast: “Behind you…”

The padlock on the basement door rattled violently.

They descended the stairs, flashlight beam slicing through dust and cobwebs. The air was damp, heavy, smelling of rust and rot. Old recording reels spun on their own, screeching with distorted voices. One tape hissed, then played Arif’s own voice: “Don’t let her out!”

Nadia’s face drained of color. “That’s you. But this tape is decades old.”

The wall cracked open with a deafening groan, revealing a hidden chamber. Inside sat a pale woman, chained, her hair matted, her eyes hollow pits. She whispered, “You freed me by speaking my name.”

Her voice was layered — soft one moment, guttural the next, echoing like multiple beings speaking at once. Suddenly, the radio upstairs erupted. Dozens of callers, all chanting in unison: “She’s behind you. She’s behind you. She’s behind you.”

The woman’s chains snapped. She lunged forward, shadows stretching unnaturally, swallowing the flashlight beam. Nadia screamed as the darkness wrapped around her, pulling her into the wall.

Arif stumbled back, trembling. “What are you?”

The woman smiled, teeth jagged, unnatural. “I am the voice you gave life. Every word you read… every listener who heard… they belong to me now.”

Her form dissolved into black smoke, rushing into Arif’s mouth, choking him. His eyes turned pitch black.

Back in the studio, Arif sat calmly at the microphone, his voice deeper, resonant, almost inhuman.
“Welcome, listeners… to the eternal midnight show. You will never turn me off.”

The “ON AIR” sign glowed brighter, pulsing like a heartbeat, then flickered out. Outside, the neon sign died. The rain stopped. The street was silent.

But across the city, radios turned on by themselves, static filling the air, followed by Arif’s voice:
“Good evening, listeners. Tonight, I read your fears.”

The world was listening. And no one could turn it off.